


Beloved Disciple

by belmanoir



Category: Relic Hunter
Genre: F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sydney and Nigel are hunting for a miracle-working icon in an old Russian monastery, and find more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beloved Disciple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/gifts).



> Written for Yuletide 2007. Thanks to Keiko and Medie for thoughtful and encouraging last-minute betas, and thank you Keiko for the title!

"It's awfully bare," Sydney said, the beam of her flashlight sweeping around the hollowed-out chapel. She'd known the cave monastery had been home to a strict order, but the walls of the underground chapel were decorated with nothing more than a few plaster bas-relief columns and some painted rectangles with words written on them in Church Slavonic. The columns that supported the ceiling were plain cylinders of rock.

"Well, I told you, Sydney," Nigel said through chattering teeth. He pulled his coat tighter around him and looked at the shadows with suspicion. "St. Fyodor's was a very austere order, inspired by the Studites. If a copyist monk broke his pen in frustration he got twenty prostrations. They were only allowed to eat the simplest of meals. And God forbid anyone suspect you weren't enthusiastic about praying eighteen hours a day. Leaning against the walls or columns in chapel carried the strictest of punishments. Russian orders tended to be very anti-intellectual, too. There _was_ one theologian whom scholars believed to be familiar with some of the classical Greeks, but recent research suggests that it was only a rumor spread by his enemies. God, it's cold."

"By his enemies?"

"Oh yes, hoping to discredit him. Profane secularism and all that."

"Hmm," Sydney said, pushing back the fur-edged hood of her parka and examining the quotes again. "Can you read them?"

"Do I have to? They're dreary."

"Well, we don't have anything else to do while we're waiting for Pavel to get here with the excavation equipment. We've already explored all the main rooms, and I don't want to go too far in case he can't find us and decides to turn around and go home. You know how lazy he is."

Nigel sighed. "They're Bible quotes. 'If I still pleased men, I wouldn't be the servant of Christ,' that one says." He pointed at another. "'Whoever loves his father or mother more than me is unworthy of me, and he that loves a son or daughter more than me is unworthy of me.'"

Sydney grimaced. "Oh. This one seems newer, don't you think?" She ran a gloved finger over the paint, which seemed far less chipped and faded than its companions.

Nigel examined it. "It does, doesn't it? And the paint looks modern, too. Acrylic, possibly. Well, if the Soviets really used the monastery to store bourgeois art, as your informant believes, they may have restored it."

"Unlikely. What does it say?"

"'So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth,'" Nigel translated. "I know that one. It's from _Revelations_. A great favorite of Dostoevsky's."

"It doesn't fit in with the others, though," Sydney said thoughtfully.

"I suppose you're right," Nigel said. "Hellfire and damnation, check. Emphasis on despising one's fellow man, blessedly absent. Do you think the coffee in your thermos is still hot?"

Sydney gave him a reproving look. "It's still hours to lunchtime, Nigel."

"I know, but I'm cold, Sydney! And even if the Soviets did keep the Beloved Disciple icon here, there's no reason to think it's still here now."

"Only that it hasn't surfaced since the fall of the Soviet Union," Sydney said, her nerves tingling with enthusiasm---or was that the cold? "Think about it, Nigel---when the icon was around, there were reports of heavenly interventions every few years. It's mentioned in nearly every scholarly article about miraculous religious art. Don't you think if anyone knew where it was, we'd have heard? The logical explanation is that it wasn't removed at all. Forgotten."

"Why you had to decide this in the middle of February, I don't know," Nigel grumbled. "Do you think if I prayed hard enough, the icon would hear me and miraculously provide me with warmer gloves?"

"You know it only performs miracles in the presence of love, Nigel. Unless you really, really love those gloves, you're probably out of luck."

"I was in love with an assistant in a glove shop once, does that count?" Nigel asked hopefully. 

Sydney rolled her eyes. "It only works for _genuine_ love, Nigel. Not a crush. It doesn't necessarily signify romantic love, either. In fact, all the documented cases that involved romantic love were married couples, people who had been together for years. One of the most famous instances was actually a mother and daughter, who were saved from a rockslide by the icon's intervention."

"Do you really believe that?"

Sydney shrugged. "I don't know. Anything's possible, right?"

"After working with you for years, I'd have to agree with that," Nigel said. "Any sign of a secret hiding place?"

"Not yet."

"Well, this is dull." He leaned against the wall under _So then because thou art lukewarm._

There was a horrible creaking noise, and the floor fell out from under them.

###

"I should really know better than to say things like that," Nigel said a few moments later. "I suppose now we know why monks weren't allowed to lean on the wall...Sydney? Why is everything so dark and slippery?"

"I'm fine, Nigel," Sydney said, lifting her cheek from the melting floor and finally locating her flashlight under her left kidney. "But my flashlight's broken, and I think this floor is made of ice." She sniffed cautiously at the slippery spot her face had made in the floor, feeling a little woozy. "Do you smell anything strange?"

"No," Nigel said, his voice nearer than it had been a moment ago. "Give me that coffee. I need it."

Sydney reached for her pack, intending to pull the thermos out of its side pocket. Nigel had apparently already done so, because her hands brushed his, Nigel shrieked, and hot coffee spattered over the ice.

A fine greenish mist rose and evaporated, leaving behind a faint smell of burnt hazelnuts.

There was silence. 

"What the bloody hell was that?" Nigel burst out finally, his voice quavering. "And why did I ever become a linguist?"

Sydney took a deep breath. "I don't know, Nigel," she said. "I have a guess, but---"

"Well, I suppose it was because I love languages," Nigel said. "Even as a child I was fascinated with alternate alphabets. And then, working with you has always had a certain---perhaps 'charm' is too strong a word, but---"

"No, I mean, I have a guess as to what is in the floor."

"Oh."

"I've never seen it---I've never even read of anyone definitively seeing it. But every relic hunter has heard rumors."

"Well?" Nigel demanded. "You _know_ I hate it when you draw out dramatic revelations like this, Sydney."

"I think this may be---Blitzgiftzahn."

"Oh." Nigel sounded resigned. "Am I supposed to have heard of that?"

"It was being developed by Nazi scientists when the war ended," Sydney explained. "No one ever found out if they succeeded, but I've heard rumors that the Soviets got ahold of it and used it as a security measure in various top-secret facilities."

"What does it do?"

"Well, it's poisonous, Nigel."

"Obviously. But it didn't poison us just now."

Sydney shivered. The burnt hazelnut smell had lingered. Was it her imagination, or was it getting stronger? "No. Supposedly the gas is only fatal within a certain temperature range. Below about ten degrees Fahrenheit, it turns liquid and bonds with hydrogen dioxide in the air, neutralizing it. Above about sixty-five degrees, it dissipates harmlessly. The coffee must have been hot enough to save us from ill effects. Is there any left?"

There was a pause, which Sydney took as a no. "'So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth,'" Nigel quoted glumly.

Sydney nodded. "Right. And the floor is made of ice mixed with the gas. While it's trapped in the ice, it's stable, but as our body heat melts the ice..."

"Oh, God," Nigel said as they both scrambled to their feet. "When did you say Pavel was getting here?"

"I didn't. Given how often his truck breaks down, I'd be surprised if it was sooner than an hour from now," Sydney said grimly. "We'll be dead by then."

"No!" Nigel said. "No, there has to be a way out. Sydney, think of a way out."

"Well, if we could somehow raise the air temperature immediately surrounding us, that might buy us enough time for Pavel to show up. But we don't have anything to start a fire, and even if we did, most of our things are damp by now."

"Perhaps if we made some sort of tent, we could isolate ourselves from the gas and raise the air temperature with our body heat," Nigel suggested.

"Nigel, that's a great idea," Sydney said, and then wished she hadn't sounded quite so surprised.

She was extremely grateful for the plaster bas-relief columns she'd criticized earlier. They were the only part of the wall soft enough for her to shoot her crossbow bolts into. She heaved a sigh of regret as the bolt pierced the hood of her parka and sank into the wall. She had liked that coat. Nigel's coat soon shared its fate, and then three of Nigel's four sweaters ("Yes, I'm wearing four sweaters---it's cold! Why aren't _you_ wearing four sweaters?") were spread on the floor underneath them. 

When Sydney and Nigel crawled underneath the suspended coats and huddled there shoulder-to-shoulder, they were---well, not cocooned in warmth, exactly. But more sheltered from the outside air than they had been, and the warmer air that came from Nigel's direction tasted blissfully poison-free. That could be her imagination, of course, but she didn't think so.

"I want my sweaters back. I'm cold," Nigel grumbled, shifting and elbowing her in the side. "Oh! Sorry." 

"Don't worry about it," Sydney said, moving to sit cross-legged and kneeing Nigel in the thigh. How did Nigel always seem to bring out the gawky adolescent in her? Next thing you knew, they'd be "conserving body heat," which was the lame excuse her homecoming date had used when his car "unexpectedly" ran out of gas on the way home and he'd put his arm around her. He'd been cute, though, and by the time someone had stopped to help them---"Oh my God, that's it!" she said, starting to sit up excitedly and stopping just before she accidentally ripped her coat out of the wall.

"What?" Nigel asked. "What's it? Are we going to survive?"

"Well...I think we can probably prolong our lives by another half an hour or so," Sydney said. "But that may give Pavel enough time to come and rescue us."

"How?"

She felt her face getting hot already. Perfect. "Have you ever---well, have you ever made out with a girl in a car?"

"Of course," Nigel said immediately. "Lots of times. Well, once. It was her mother's car. I mean, her mother wasn't there---"

"Do you remember what happened to the windows?"

Nigel thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose they must have fogged up. I don't remember anymore, but that's what always happens in films."

Sydney smiled. "Exactly. And the windows fog up because the rising body surface temperatures of the people cause a rise in the air temperature in the car, right?"

"I see," Nigel said slowly. "Sydney, are you suggesting...?"

"Yes."

"I see." There was a pause. "What are you suggesting, exactly? Because I'd really rather this didn't turn into another embarrassing misunderstanding."

"Another one?" Sydney asked. "What was the first one?"

"There wasn't one," Nigel said quickly. "I misspoke."

Sydney struggled to sound nonchalant. "I'm suggesting we take off all our clothes and then, er....well, make out with each other. I know it's awkward, but it may be our only hope. What do you say?"

"I---" Nigel sounded like someone was strangling him. "I suppose I could make the sacrifice. To save our lives."

"Great," Sydney said, and started unbuttoning her shirt.

"Sydney!" Nigel squawked. 

She stopped. "What?"

"Er, nothing. Just a reflex. Please, continue."

It took them a while to wriggle out of their clothes. Sydney could hear Nigel rustling and grunting, the slither of bootlaces and the unzipping of zippers. Normally it wouldn't have affected her, but knowing what they were about to do---well, it was definitely raising her body temperature, despite the chilly air that was hitting her exposed flesh. Which was good, right? 

She'd never really thought about Nigel like this---not more than once or twice, anyway. Well, maybe three or four times. But now that she _was_ thinking about it---the idea was surprisingly un-repulsive. She unhooked her bra and dropped it on the ground. She hesitated at her underwear---but surely that part of her would produce valuable heat, too. Sighing, she slipped them off. She wasn't wearing anything now but the leather thong around her throat.

"Sydney?" Nigel said in tones of extreme trepidation. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." 

A hand reached out and hit her breast, then was drawn back immediately. "Oh! Sorry. I---"

"It's quite all right, Nigel," Sydney said, her heart pounding. "Under the circumstances---"

"Let's just start with kissing, shall we?" Nigel said, his voice high and nervous.

"All right," Sydney said, reaching out. Her hand landed on Nigel's shoulder, and she moved it tentatively up until she was cupping his chin. Then she adjusted her balance, leaned forward, and kissed him.

"Umf," he said, then kissed her back.

He knew what he was doing, Sydney had to admit. He started out slow and let her set the pace, not even trying to bring in a hint of tongue until she was pressing forward and breathing hard. Then he lightly licked her bottom lip, raising her surface temperate at _least_ two degrees---

There was a strange hissing sound from beneath them, like drops of water on a hot skillet.

Nigel broke off the kiss. "What was that?"

"I---" Sydney's brain was oddly blank. "I don't know."

"Sydney!" 

That wasn't Nigel's voice, and it was coming from a ways away. 

"Pavel!" she yelled. "Pavel!"

"Sydney!" Nigel hissed, frantically pawing through the pile of their clothes. "He can't find us like this!"

"I don't care how he finds us as long as he finds us," Sydney said, quashing something that felt suspiciously like disappointment. " _Pavel!_ "

"Sydney, where are you?" Pavel called. "Keep shouting!"

"Over here!"

"Can't you at least wait until I get my pants back on?" Nigel hissed.

"Don't be silly, Nigel, there's a perfectly innocent reason for us to be naked. We were trying to raise the air temperature inside our tent. No one will be shocked."

"There's not a perfectly innocent reason for me to be sporting an enormous..." The sentence trailed off into unintelligible but clearly sarcastic muttering.

Oh. 

Sydney sighed. "Over here!" she shouted again, and started looking for her bra.

Seconds later a beam of light shone from above and illuminated the entire underground chamber--- _Well, that wasn't right,_ Sydney thought. The entire under-underground chamber, maybe. Sydney waved her arms and yelled some more. "Here!" she called. "Careful, it's Blitzgiftzahn!"

There was a whistle from above them. "And I thought that was only a relic hunter's bogeyman," Pavel said, sticking his face over and shining his light around. 

Sydney looked over at Nigel. He was wearing his pants, but he hadn't managed his shirt yet and---

_Not your type,_ she told herself firmly. She searched for somewhere else to direct her eyes, and forgot all about Nigel. "The icon! Look, there it is!" she shouted, pointing. "Shine your flashlight there!"

Pavel obeyed. There, about four feet below the surface of the transparent, faintly green ice, was the Beloved Disciple icon. It was inside some kind of metal casing which seemed to have---melted? Enough of it had peeled away from the icon that half the image showed through. Even distorted by the ice, she recognized it. Crap. The relic was bound to be badly damaged. Why would you bury a precious relic underneath ice in a broken case? It was a crime. Damn Communists.

###

But when they came back a few hours with gas masks and fancy equipment with hi-tech lasers and got the relic out, it was perfectly preserved. Even more inexplicable, the heat that had damaged the case seemed both to have been recent and to have come from inside. 

"That's...extremely weird," Nigel said. "Or miraculous, take your pick."

Sydney shrugged. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." She sighed. "I can never put things like this in my journal articles. But it'll be a great story for the exhibit at the local museum."

Nigel nodded. "Have you got any of that hot chocolate left?"

"Yes, but don't spill it this time," she warned him.

He stuck his tongue out at her. Sydney ignored the little zing that went through her and laughed.


End file.
